


Reel you in and spit you out.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Finch!whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: “If you so much as harm a hair on him, you would regret it.” And Reese wasn’t joking. If Finch got hurt, he did not know how he would react, but he was sure it won’t be pleasant for the man.“Huh, fancy words for- I SAID DON’T MOVE.”The next thing John heard was a gunshot, and a scream. Later, he could not be sure if the scream was his own or Harold’s. His ears were ringing, his vision white, and when he became conscious of his surroundings again, all he could hear was static.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xLostLenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore/gifts).



> Happy Birthday (belated). It was her birthday last week and a while back she tagged me in a fic!prompt. It's inspired from that wonderful edit.
> 
> http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/153730186378/i-need-fics-about-thispreferably-with-a-gunshot

“Finch? What are you doing?” He had tapped his earwig because he was bored. The number he was currently surveilling was probably done for the night, and John wanted to share a couple of snarky ~~flirtatious~~ jibes with Harold via phone, until he went back to library and shared them in person. He expected to hear the tranquil silence of the library broken by tapping rhythm of keys, but instead he could hear Harold breathing hard, and distinct sound of the traffic.

 “We received two numbers today Mr. Reese. While you’re tailing Ms. Graham, I thought it was only prudent for me to get some basic information on Mr. Whitlow.”

“Haven’t I told you before how much I don’t like you putting yourself in danger when I am not around?”

“And haven’t I told you, it’s not your prerogative to tell me what to do?”

“Harold…”

“John, just because I let you into my bed doesn’t mean you get to control what I do. Our line of work is dangerous and I expect you to extend me the same courtesy as I do you.”

“Which is?”

“The faith that I can take care of myself.” There was a bite in his words and John barely suppressed a sigh. Finch was right. Nobody needed an overprotective partner. The shift in their relationship was fairly new, and he had reassured Finch over and over that it won’t affect their working relationship- but damn it. Was John not allowed to be _concerned_? John had worried even before they started sleeping together. He had lost everything in life once, and he wasn’t prepared to lose it again.

“Alright. What do we know about this Whitlow?” He sighed, letting it go. Autonomy was important to Harold, more than most people.

“Very little in fact. Male, mid 30’s, was in Army for a while but then was honorably discharged and he has had an almost negligible digital footprint ever since. I have been following him around for a few hours now, and the only thing I could find was when he called his doctor.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes. Dr. Wesley, one of the highest charging psychiatrist in New York City. Apparently our number is a paranoid schizophrenic, from what I could discern from their talk, which would explain the lack of digital footprint. And Mr. Whitlow seems aware that he is in danger, kept insisting about being followed on the call, but the doctor put it down as his disease. Advised him to up his medication. He really should find a new doctor in my opinion.”

John suddenly stiffened, lowering his hand with the camera.

“Finch. Get back to the library.”

“Mr. Reese, need I remind you I am your employer, not the other way around?” Finch bristled.

“I am not joking Finch. This man is ex-Army, is paranoid about being tracked… and you’re shadowing him. How do you think that’s going to turn out?”

“I assure you, while I am not as adept at surveillance as you are, I am far from incompetent.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Mr. Reese…”

“Harold!” He made sure his voice had enough steel behind it that there would be no argument.

“Alright. I think he is retiring for the night anyhow. He is just reaching his apartment building.” And he narrated the address to the place.

John’s feet started moving before he consciously willed them to. Harold was only 25 minutes’ drive away, and if he had any say in it, he would be there in 20.

“Stay where you are, I am coming to you.”

“That’s ridiculous. What about Miss Graham?”

“The only thing that she is in danger from is sleep apnea right now, she turned off the lights half an hour ago. I was going to go to library anyway.”

“You should go home. Rest. We have had multiple numbers every day this week. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.” Finch was rambling. Reese knew he did not like it being treated like he couldn’t take care of himself, but he had learned not to belittle his gut feelings. His instincts were what had gotten him out alive from dangerous situations; and right now every single one of them were screaming at him to get to Finch.

Finch was in danger.

He reached his motorbike, put the key in ignition and revved it up. It was a lot easier to navigate through the traffic of New York with a bike than a car, which is why it was his preferred mode of transportation most days and he was especially thankful for choosing it today, because it ensured he would reach Harold faster. 20 minutes felt far too long to his rapidly beating heart.

“Finch, talk to me.”

“What about Mr. Reese?” Huff of breath from the other side, even filled with disdain, reassured him.

“I have a bad feeling about this. Where is Whitlow right now?”

“He just turned the corner to his street and I lost him,” John stepped on the accelerator, willing the bike to move faster, _faster_ , “Must’ve gone into his apartment before I could catc- _Oh_!”

John’s heart sank, his bike wobbled, but by sheer power of will he kept it from crashing. “Finch?” No reply other than harsh breaths came from the other side. “Finch, are you there?” His heart rate was climbing, so was his motorcycle speed, “FINCH.”

“Mr. Reese…” Harold’s voice on the other end was deceptively calm. John knew this voice. This was the voice he used when things had gone drastically wrong, “… I am afraid you might have been right about the bad feeling.”

“What’s wrong Harold? I am on my way, I am coming for you. Just hang in there.”

“I may have over-estimated my powers of subterfuge. It appears Mr. Whitlow has spotted me.”

“Can you run for cover? Can you talk him out of it?”

“Finch?” He repeated urgently when no reply was forthcoming.

“That might be,” a loud swallow, “a little difficult, considering he has a gun pointed at my head.”

It was a sheer miracle that John’s motorcycle did not collide into the car next to him. He swayed so hard, and generated so many angry honks, but the only sound registering to him were Harold’s tightly controlled breaths and a muffled angry bite of,

‘ _Who are you? Why were you following me?_ ’ John’s knuckles whitened, the seconds seemed to stretch forever.

‘Mr. Whitlow, we are just trying to help.’ Finch was employing his Professor voice, and John breathed out, “Good Finch, that’s good, just keep talking to him.”

 _‘We? Who else is here? Who are you talking to on the phone?_ ’ and fuck! He could hear the shuffling and suddenly there was a different voice in his ear.

“Who are you?” A deep voice- decidedly not Harold’s- spoke, the words sounding menacing, and then, to probably Harold, ‘ _If you move, I will shoot you.’_

“If you so much as hurt a hair on him, you would regret it.” And Reese wasn’t joking. If Finch got hurt, he did not know how he would react, but he was sure it won’t be pleasant for the man.

“Huh, fancy words for- I SAID DON’T MOVE.”

The next thing John heard was a gunshot, and a scream. Later, he could not be sure if the scream was his own or Harold’s. His ears were ringing, his vision white, and when he became conscious of his surroundings again, all he could hear was static.

Oh and a storm of car honks and curses. He had hit the break in the middle of the road. Surrounded by swerving vehicles and flashing lights, John felt frozen, and detached. Like the person standing in the middle of the road, in cold night was someone different from him. All he could think of, right at this moment, was the last time he had talked to Jessica, told her he was coming for her. But was too late. Too late. Always too late.

He had lost his everything once: Jessica, his job, his team, his belief in the greater good and his very reason to keep fighting.

But now, Harold was his everything. _Everything_.

No.

Not this time.

Revenge was not going to be enough this time. Harold had to live. He had to! He would fight any deity that was if they tried to take Harold away from him. They weren’t _allowed_. He won’t let them.

The reality rushed back at him with a long gasp of air, and he held it in, thought of Harold’s face in the mornings without his glasses, and the little smile when he brought him his green tea in bed sometimes, the crinkles around his eyes as he kissed him; slowly, he let the breath out, trembling.

He was not letting those things to just be memories. Recollections of a caress on his face, a finger tracing his scars, a breath ghosting over his lips: that’s all he had left of Jessica. He was sure he won’t survive if that’s all that was left of Harold too: the warm bright light of a hotel in Mexico replaced by the smell of old books and dust and the feeling of Harold’s lips on his own.

Harold could not die.

Shaking away all of his doubts and fear, he let his military training kick in. Don’t think about the goal, concentrate on the process. Press the accelerator, stabilize the bike, drive, speed up, speed up, _speed up_.

Whitlow’s apartment was 20 minutes away from him, on a good day he would’ve reached there in fifteen. Right now, he made it there in ten. His heart rate was deceptively slow, his hands were steady, and his head clear. He just had to make it to the building, and he would think about the consequences later.

When he reached the block, where Harold was supposed to be, he looked around, hoping to see Finch standing there waiting for him with the dead body of Whitlow, completely unharmed; or maybe Harold was a little injured- scratched at worse. The idea that Harold’s body, warm but lifeless might be lying around the corner faltered his step for a second but he resolutely shook it. Reese refused to even entertain that thought. Harold was alive. He had to be.

His feet knocked something and it went skidding forward. When he bent to pick it, he realized it was Finch’s phone, the screen cracked. John closed his eyes and counted to ten, blanking his mind, slowing his heart and then straightened up to look around. No body, no Harold, no Whitlow.

Blood.

He noticed a small pool of blood near the wall. Not big enough for a fatal wound. When he moved closer he also noticed a bullet embedded in the concrete. So it wasn’t in Harold- if that was the only bullet shot. If the ex-army guy didn’t just take Harold somewhere else and emptied the cartridge inside him. What if he was too late… what if the last thing he told Harold was that he was coming for him, and failed? Failed. Again.

Focus.

He needed to focus.

Scanning the place, his eyes moving too fast to take in the details, he deliberated. If he had tried to drag an injured man, there would be a smudged trail of blood. There wasn’t any. But only a meter away from the pool, there were some droplets of it. He stepped towards them to see another few of them, leading him towards a building in the middle of the street. The bloody hand print on the side of the wall told him where Finch was. A quick glance at the resident’s names told him the Erwin Whitlow lived on the 3rd floor. He could wait for someone to come in and open the door to sneak in behind them, or he could call someone and tell them he had lost his key, but he doubted his skills at faking it at the moment, and knew that waiting was impossible. Finch could be up there, tied, tortured, and bleeding out.

So he pulled out his Detective Stills badge, hammered on the door, and very soon he was running, too impatient to wait for the lift and climbing stairs three at a time. Not even bothering to knock, he kicked open the door behind which Harold possibly was, with enough force to shake its hinges, the lock breaking.

The adrenaline sharpened his gaze, so the first thing he noticed was Harold sitting slumped on a couch, his eyes wide. Oh Thank God _. Thank God_.

The next thing he noticed was a tall muscular man coming out of a room in shock, holding something. All the anger and fear that he had bottled up for the last half hour came back with a vengeance and before he realized what he was even doing, he had the man knocked back to the wall, his arm on his neck, pushing him to stand on his tiptoes. His other hand was pressing the gun at his temple.

“I warned you… one hair.” He growled.

“I am sorry. I am sorry,” the man started sputtering.

“You hurt him.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You fucking hurt him.”

“I just” He struggled, trying to push John’s arm away, but that just made John put in more pressure until the man’s face was red, and he was wheezing with every breath.

“Mr. Reese.” Harold’s voice called out from somewhere behind him, but even though it calmed something in his heart, confirming that Harold was alive, it also fueled his anger at almost losing him even more. His grip tightened even more, the muzzle of the gun putting enough pressure on the guy’s temple, that there would be bruises- if he made it out alive that is.

“Ple-eas- I—am sorry.” The man chocked out. John did not know what his face looked like, but he could guess: his teeth were bared, his pupils too wide to really see. The man looked terrified, and for good reason.

“Mr. Reese for heaven’s sake let the poor man go.” Now he could hear shuffling behind him, and he wanted to look back, to tell Harold to stay put and let him handle this, but the fury in his chest won’t let him move his eyes away from his prey.

“He hurt you.” He snarled.

“John.” And now there was a hand on his forearm, the one choking the man- probably Whitlow. “Let him go.”

When Harold slowly tugged his arm away, he was helpless to resist it. He felt like a puppet whose strings were cut. At the slightest nudge, he turned and his eyes beheld Harold, whole and breathing, and his eyes roamed across his face, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“I am okay John. It’s alright.” Harold cajoled him, like one would a spooked child.

Shuddering out a breath, he zoomed out of his focus on Harold’s face and noticed he had shed his coat and tie, and was wearing a light blue dress shirt, which was stained crimson. His breath hitched. There was too much blood. His gaze focused on the tight bandage made out of a strip of cloth on top of Harold’s right arm, the color was impossible to determine because it was soaked red. Fresh blood, still bleeding.

Harold noticed him staring and said, calm, “Just a graze John. Nothing a few stitches and a couple of painkillers won’t cure. And I have already gotten a head start on the pills.” He smiled.

John clenched his teeth so tightly he could feel it in his temples.                     

“I really am sorry. I wasn’t…” Whitlow started speaking and John straightened his gun hand that was sagging and pointed it at the man’s forehead without taking his eyes off of Finch.

“Don’t speak.” He bit out.

Harold raised both of his hands placating, and then winced and dropped the injured one. A drop of blood dripped from where it had pooled around his wrist, down to his ring finger, and spattering on the floor. Reese followed it with his eyes.

“Mr. Whitlow, please let me handle this.” Harold spoke loudly, and John felt an irrational anger surge inside to hear him speak so reassuringly to the man who had _shot him_.

“Mr. Reese,” John didn’t even know his gaze had shifted to menacingly gaze at Whitlow until he snapped it back to Harold, “As you can see I am in need of some basic medical assistance. Now Mr. Whitlow has been kind enough to offer…”

“No.”

“Please be reasonable.”

“He shot you Harold.”

“Yes. But he didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“How does someone _accidentally_ shoot someone?” His grip on the trigger tightened. He could blame it on being an accident to. It was practically self-defense. Only the thought of Harold getting upset stopped him from pressing it all the way.

“If you would please lower the gun… John.” Low blow, taking his name in the achingly gentle voice, “you know I don’t like them.”

“I know Harold. But this man shot you with one.”

“And I told you, he didn’t mean to. He panicked. And he’s trying to make up for it if you would just let him.”

“No.”

“You’re behavior is extremely ludicrous now. I need stitches, and he has the supplies. ”

“We could go to Dr. Tillman.” John insisted.

“At this time of the night? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t care. He doesn’t touch you. He stays as far from you as possible.” He shook his gun hand to insist his point.

“Alright.” Harold placated again. “I guess I can try to do it myself. Just, please lower your gun.”

John swallowed. “I will do it. Just, not here.”

“I can hardly go bleeding out onto the streets, and anyway, Mr. Whitlow here needs protection.”

“There was a hotel at the end of the street. I am sure they can be persuaded to look the other way.” John knew he was asking for a lot, but his heart was beating in his throat and he knew he needed to get Harold out of here for his adrenaline to settle. Harold looked at John, and then at the man behind him, and again at John, searching his eyes. Whatever he found there, made him sigh.

He gave his arm a critical look, shook his head and grabbed another piece of fabric to tie it around his arm roughly. John finally lowered his gun, giving Whitlow a sharp stare that said ‘don’t move’ and helped Harold shrug on his coat.

“Mr. Reese, I am going to repeat one last time how absurdly unnecessary this is.”

“I know.” John admitted quietly, “Please. Just humor me.”

Harold looked at him and smiled despite everything. And then frowned, “We can’t leave a number unprotected.”

John turned towards the man in question, extremely tempted to just shoot him and be done with the problem. “Stay here, put a table in front of the door and don’t open it. Don’t answer any calls other than from a man called Detective Fusco. And try to control your trigger happy finger.” Then he looked at Finch, “We will call Fusco to look after him tomorrow morning.”

Finch did not look happy, but nodded grimly anyway, the pain finally showing up in his face. John grabbed the first aid kid Whitlow was bringing out, and had dropped when John had barged into the house.

“Lead the way Mr. Reese.”

* * *

 

It took ten minutes to get reach the hotel. Another ten minutes combined with the power of Detective Stills’ badge and Harold’s Crane’s bank account, and they were finally situated in a room. Reese moved to close the curtains, and check the room for any kind surveillance devices. It was instinct.

It wasn’t like he was stalling.

He placed the first aid kit on the writing table and opened it, appreciating how well stocked it was. He wouldn’t need to make a quick run to break and enter a pharmacy after all.

He wasn’t stalling.

He could hear Harold moving behind him, the rustle of clothes signifying that Harold was taking off his coat, and a muffled gasp made him wince full body because of course- of fucking course- Harold was in pain. And despite all that, John had dragged him, losing blood, in agony, for another twenty minutes when by now he could’ve been cleaned, dressed and resting.

All because he was selfishly angry.

“I am sorry.” The words came choking out of his throat, as if they were suffocating him.

“Hmm?” Harold sounded distracted.

“I am sorry. Oh God I am so so sorry. I am sorry.” John kept saying, the horror of his actions dawning on him.

“Mr. Reese…”

“I shouldn’t have. Jesus. What was I thinking? You were hurt and I- I didn’t even think” He swayed, and then held the corner of the table with both of his hands, his knuckles whitening. Language deserted him. _What had he done?_

“Mr. Reese…” Harold was speaking from behind him but he might as well be miles away, “John.”

He remembered seeing the pool of blood, the spatters, the way a drop had trickled to the ground in front of his eyes, the bandage soaked. Harold was injured, and he had been too preoccupied with himself.

“John.” Finch’s voice was sharp this time, and it broke John out of his flashbacks. He realized he was trembling.

“John. It’s okay. I am not going to say your actions weren’t unreasonable, but I understand. I have lost people precious to me as well.”

John stared at the table, at the mahogany wood, and suffocated the sob that begged to come out of his chest.

“And if I am completely honest, I do prefer it this way. I feel… safer.” There was a tremble in Harold’s voice for the first time this evening.

Reese realized if he did not start doing something productive soon, he would probably give in and start crying. The adrenaline was fading, and he was feeling like his legs would give out. So he went to the washroom, and took out two glasses. Then he opened the minibar and took out a miniature bottle of scotch, pouring half and gulping it down in one go. Then he poured the other half and twisted to offer it to Harold, without really looking at him.

“I don’t think it’s wise to mix alcohol with pain meds.” He commented, but took the glass anyway.

 He turned back around and in the other glass added half the 100 ml saline, and then mixed some hydrogen peroxide in it. He took out the gloves, the sutures, the needle holder, scissor and forceps and arranged then neatly. Taking a large breath, he braced himself for look of disapproval as he finally turned to face his employer.

“Hi.” Finch teased, and John felt tears prickle at his eyes, which he resolutely pushed back.

Harold was still wearing his shirt, so he gestured mutely to take it off. He seemed to understand, and slowly took it off of the uninjured shoulder. The sleeve of the injured one was already cut, probably at Whitlow’s place, and taking it off was easy. John moved and helped untie the cloth that was wrapped around the wound, only realizing that the blood had clotted and the cloth was stuck.

_Damn it._

“It’s going to hurt.” John looked at Harold with remorse, only to find him grit his teeth and nod. John tried to pull the cloth away, and then all at once decided he couldn’t.

“Wait.” He said, and went to the washroom again, this time coming back with a glass of water that he poured over the makeshift bandage, soaking it, so that pulling it off won’t hurt, and won’t start fresh bleeding.

“What?” He snapped defensively when he caught the fond smile on Harold’s face.

“Nothing.” Harold replied, and then as if he couldn’t help himself. “A wound like this on yourself, you probably wouldn’t even bother with cleaning.”

John couldn’t reply, because he could not tell him what he was thinking: that Harold was important. Much more than John was. He was sure Harold was frown on that.

After being sufficiently sure that the cloth was damp enough, he slowly peeled it off, exposing Harold’s arm. There was a 4 inch long and an inch deep gash on the outer side, the edges jagged, blood still oozing out of it. This wasn’t a clean injury. It would heal ugly, leaving scar.

Something unpleasant twisted inside John’s stomach. Part of it was anger, part misery, and part plain nausea. Abruptly he turned away, moving towards the table to pick up the saline and the peroxide. He first poured saline on the wound, hating himself when Harold’s groaned, but knowing it was a necessary evil. Then he poured the peroxide solution. Infections were nasty business.

Moving back, and snapping on gloves, he let his mind turn back to business, as he picked up the suture in the holder, and moving to hover over the wound. To his utter dismay, he realized his hands were shaking.

He looked at Harold’s face, which was pale, and his eyes darted to John’s trembling hands.

“It’s just a superficial wound John.” He comforted, achingly tender. John wanted to jump off the window when realized that even though Harold was he one that was hurt, _John_ was the one who was in need of reassurance.

He nodded tightly, not bothering to voice how, just a few inches off, it could’ve cut Harold’s axillary artery, just one shake of hand, and it could’ve perforated his chest, his neck, his skull. Shooting a gun in panic was a tossup. The bullet could hit anywhere. Just because it hadn’t led to fatal wound didn’t mean it _couldn’t have_.

John tried to grip the edge of the wound with forceps, but his hands were shaking too hard. He willed them to listen, tried to blank his mind, but nothing worked.

“Maybe we should call Dr. Tillman after all.” John admitted hoarsely.

“Have you ever done this before? Sutured someone?” Harold asked instead of giving an answer.

“Yes. But they weren’t you.” John looked up and away from the gaping red flesh, not meeting Harold’s eye. He could not bear to see the pity that would be in them.

“Tell me about the first time.”

“Why?”

“I am just curious.” He could sense rather than see Harold’s shrug.

“First time in controlled setting was when they taught us how to do first aid in training camp. It’s a necessary skill.”

“And first time in uncontrolled setting?”

“I was posted in Iraq, I and one of the other soldier from our platoon got separated from the rest. He caught a bullet in the calf, the bullet exited, did not hit the bone, but it was bleeding a lot. We snuck into one of the abandoned houses and there was no med kit. Had to make do with simple needle and thread. The man needed a cane when we got back, but he lived.”

“You saved his life.” Harold nodded in awe.

“Couldn’t save the other three that got killed in the same gunfire.”

“Nobody can John. Nobody can save everyone.”

Shaking his head bitterly, he noticed his hands were shuddering a lot less now. “What about yourself?”

“What about me?” Tentatively he reached and pinched an edge of the wound, at the center of laceration. Still not stable enough, but maybe getting there.

“Did you ever stitch yourself up?”

John laughed mirthlessly, “More times than I can count; though using heat to coagulate a wound worked a lot better in emergencies.” He smiled and looked at Finch’s face. The genuine look of appalled horror on his face made John laugh again, a lot less bitter. “Not as bad as it sounds. And a lot better than dying.”

“You’re the expert.” Harold agreed skeptically.

Experimentally, John sank in the needle in the soft flesh, pulled it out, and grabbed the other edge, in, out, curl the suture around the holder, tie and snip. The stitch looked shaky and untidy, but it did the job.

“Kara though, Kara was very particular about stitches. She carried a small first aid kit everywhere. Insisted she didn’t want scars where they showed, or where they could not be covered with makeup.” John continued talking, telling about a few memorable times when they hid in garages and she whipped out the kit seemingly out of nowhere and corrected and critiqued John’s technique. All the while, needle in, needle out, tie, and snip, and repeat; each suture looking neater and firmer than the other, starting from the center and going towards the edge.

Harold either had incredible pain tolerance, or incredible self-control, probably both. He hardly winced at the sharp insertions of needle, or at the pull as he brought the wound together, and pretty soon, he was done. On himself he would probably have used 3 stitches, if he was generous and had time. On Harold, he used eight. It was going to scar anyway, but John was going to do his best to minimize the damage.

After he tied off the last stitch, he turned and brought the bandage that he placed on the wound after covering the wound with ample antibiotic ointment. He was going to make sure to get some antibiotic pills for Harold too, in the morning.

He ran his fingers on the bandage and the skin around it tenderly, and then instinctively bent and kissed Harold’s arm, right above the bandage, a little up, and up. He kept kissing, inching up, until he reached the middle of Harold’s shoulder, biting gently. Finch sighed and tilted his head, giving him space to lick, suck, lick at Harold’s neck, the dip in his throat, his collar bone.

“John?” He asked shakily.

“Please Harold. Can I?” He did not even know what he was asking, only that the fierce emotions from before were returning, the anger that had nowhere to go. He bit the collarbone under his mouth, making Finch jump a little, and then soothed it with his tongue, breathing open mouthed up, until he reached Harold’s jaw.

He peppered it with kisses, taking the earlobe in his mouth and sucking it gently, and then moving back, looking at his face and noticing that Finch’s breathing was labored too.

“Please Harold.” His voice ached like his heart did. “Please. I need…”

“John. My Dear John! I don’t know if I can…”

“Let me worry about it.” John said, realizing Harold was talking the meds he had already taken, and the pain he must still be feeling, but he was burning up, and he didn’t know how to extinguish his fire other than in Harold.

“But…”

“Please.” John’s voice broke, and so did Harold’s resolve. He nodded, tilting his head to be kissed. John wasted no time in slotting their lips together, pouring out all of his fear into the kiss… his hunger. It was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more… more.

Breaking off, he moved down Harold’s jaw, leaving hot wet kisses down Harold’s chest, swirling his tongue around the nipples and dipping it into his navel until he sank down on his knees and opened Finch’s fly. The sharp intake of breath was not exactly a protest, so John eased out Finch’s soft cock.

“I did tell you…” Finch started sheepish but John hushed him. He wasn’t disappointed that it was not hard yet, instead enjoyed how he could take it all in his mouth and suck, and run his tongue in circles. If this was all Harold was capable of, he would happily just kneel here for hours, with the taste of Harold on his tongue and saliva pooling in his mouth. He swallowed, and Harold gasped above him, his one hand clutching the bed’s fabric for support and the other coming to rest in John’s hair, soothing. It helped. John tried to let go of the desperation he was feeling and gentled his suction, used his hand to play with Harold’s balls, rolling them, and was gratified when Harold’s cock started taking notice in his mouth. It took effort, and time, but it was all the more rewarding for that.

One of his fingers dipped down, until they were rubbing at his entrance, slowly and tentatively, as if asking permission. He even looked up and waited till Harold opened his eyes, taking his mouth off of the half hard erection and mouth the word “Please,” rejoicing when he got a nod in return. He pressed, and rubbed and pressed and rubbed, all the while suckling and lapping the head, taking it deeper sometimes, until he finally managed to dip the finger in up to the knuckle, delighted at how Finch’s dick was finally paying attention to the game.

“Mr. Reese, not that I am complaining but…” his voice was deliciously rough, “Shouldn’t we move this to bed?”

John did not want to stop, so in retaliation he took the fully hard cock in his mouth and deep throated it, suppressing his gag reflex, and hummed, his other finger slowly wriggling inside the tight hole. Harold whined a long sigh of his name and in defeat, he withdrew. As much as he wanted Harold to come, he wanted to feel him around him, be inside him, and feel his heart beating strong and alive as he fucked him even more.

He pulled off, and moved towards the washroom for the umpteenth time to get lube and condom, instructing Finch to take off his clothes. He came back to find a now naked Finch arranging the pillows the way he liked, getting himself comfortable, and his heart seemed to settle into muted fondness as he slowly peeled off his own clothes.

He took his time with Harold, kissing and licking him sloppy, making him gasp and moan, and then with agonizing slowness he opened him up. Every pant was a testament to the fact that he was alive, every groan a proof. He had heard Harold scream in pain and fear, and had wondered if that was the last thing he would ever hear from him.

John wanted Harold to scream in pleasure, to shake away the lingering echoes.

“John, if you don’t get inside me now, I am leaving.” Harold threatened, but his warning was softened by the whine that followed when John three fingers circled and pressed his sweet spot just so.

“Please.” Finch begged, and all of a sudden Reese could not stand it any longer. Harold should never have to beg. He moved, and in quick efficient movements sheathed his own erection in condom. It was the first time he had touched it all evening and he suddenly realized how desperately hard and aching he was. Somehow, it was all secondary to feeling Harold… to making him feel.

Reese rearranged Finch on his back so that the movements won’t jostle his arm, positioned himself and gradually sank in, inch by inch. He had to close his eyes at the sensation, not daring to look at Harold’s face, afraid he would disappear. When he was all the way inside, he placed both hands on the bed and bent his head, hiding his face in the crook of Harold’s neck, panting. It felt too exquisite, too good, too _much_.

He couldn’t stand to feel it for another second. He wanted to feel it forever.

“Move, please, move.” Harold moaned, and John heard the words as well as felt the vibrations of his chest with it, and yet, John wanted to be closer still.

He pulled out halfway and slowly thrust back in, gyrating his hips gently, and Harold’s whimper was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. So he did it again, and again, pulling out in increments and sinking back in with same deliberation, basking in the tight heat of Harold and his keening whines.

“More John, Harder. Please. Please.” Harold begged but John just shook his head, pulling himself up on his arms and looking at Harold’s face. This is how he wanted it tonight: not fast and rough, not chasing a high. Just gentle and slow celebration of being alive. Something in John’s face must’ve registered to Finch because through panting breaths he jerked his head in a nod and said, “So good. Just like this. Don’t stop.”

And John did not. He couldn’t have even if he had tried. The need to melt into the body of his lover was consuming him, and because he could not do that, because he could not crawl out of his body and fuse in with Harold’s soul… this was the next best thing.

He could feel his climax approaching, the end of the cliff near, but he made no effort to chase it. Just made love to the man below him, gazing at his blown pupils, flushed cheeks and open mouth with no defenses, his emotions lay bare.

“John, I… I,” Harold warned and Reese raised one of his hands to place it on Finch’s chest, right above his heart. _Thump, thump, thump_ : it was pounding, fast and strong, like a beacon to follow even on the darkest days.

“Yes.” John whispered, “Yes.” And then, because even though his body was singing it, his tongue wanted to taste the words too, “I love you.”

Finch, when he climaxed, did so quietly, his body shaking and trembling, his breath hitching. John kept his gentle rhythm going, feeling the channel tighten and relax around him. When John crested, his orgasm embraced him like a warm and welcome wave, non-urgent and peaceful, like an end of a journey in which destination wasn’t the goal… the road was. He stared at Harold’s face through it, watching how there were tears trickling out of his eyes, and it was only when he saw a drop fall on the face below him that he realized he was crying too.

Feeling ripped open and raw, he hid his face in Harold’s chest, and let his tears pool when he felt Finch’s fingers card through his hair and massage his scalp. He did not know how long he lay like this, his softened cock inside Harold, his eyes leaking, and his heart beating a reverential rhythm of Harold’s name.

When he finally composed himself and pulled himself up, he gazed at the tender smile on his lover’s face and wanted this moment to never end, for the world to freeze and this be his last moment, the moment he lived in from now on. Because he had never been loved so in his life and he had never loved so either.

With extreme reluctance he detached himself, and went to the washroom to tie off his condom and clean himself. Then he brought a wet washcloth to wipe off the semen and tears from Harold’s torso, and threw it aside carelessly. It wasn’t worth getting away from Harold’s proximity.

“Need anything?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

“Just you is good.” Harold smiled cheekily.

“You aren’t in pain are you?” And to that Harold twisted and moved his arm, wincing a bit.

“No more than I can tolerate.” He admitted in the end.

John brought out a couple of spare pillows from the cupboard, and helped position Harold the way he preferred, flat on his back for today, because his leg and injured arm made it difficult to lie on side. Then he settled himself on the other side, curling himself in Harold’s space. The wound would make it impossible for them to spoon, but he wanted to be as close as possible. Figuring out the dilemma, Harold huffed and grabbed one of John’s hand and placed it right over his heart.

 _Thump, thump, thump_.

John’s eyes closed to the steady beat of the powerful heart under his palm, and sleep came remarkably easy with its lullaby.

* * *

 

He woke up twice during the night, to the darkness, but the warm presence on the bed and the reassuring thudding under his hand made him drift off to sleep again. The third time he woke up, the light was on and the bed was empty.

He stretched his arms and propped himself up, looking around, and his eyes found Harold almost immediately. The tension he had not even realized he was carrying washed out of him. Finch was sitting in a bathrobe on the table, typing away furiously at a laptop in front of him. John mentally reminded himself to change the bandage soon.

“Good morning Mr. Reese, there is coffee on the bedside table.” He said without looking up. It was so normal, like last night had not even happened, that John’s lips stretched into a wide smile despite himself. He half wondered how he had missed room service, but he had been so drugged on the taste of Harold that he wasn’t very surprised. Anyway, the man could be sneaky when he wanted.

“Morning Finch. How did you acquire a laptop so fast?” John asked, twisting to see the coffee. He debated whether he should shower first, but then the drink would get cold. So he just shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the mug.

“You will find there is very little money can’t buy.” He commented haughtily, which John surmised meant that he bribed someone at reception to let him borrow or buy theirs- bribed generously.

He took a sip of coffee, rolling the taste around in his mouth. Not bad. “So what was so important that you could not wait to get to the library for it?”

“Something about Mr. Whitlow, I can’t really pinpoint what it was and I might be wrong, but I saw his medicine cabinet. I have been uh,” Harold swallowed, and John abruptly realized it was something difficult for him to admit, “I know what medicine for PTSD and paranoia look like. Those weren’t it.”

John refrained from commenting on the admission. He had guessed, but Harold giving him the information felt like a precious gift. He got up from the bed, and stood behind Finch. Finch twisted a little to look at his naked body, his gaze travelling appreciatively up and down its planes, and then he motioned with his head towards the washroom where the second bathrobe probably was. Reese hid his smile behind the cup and pretended to not understand.

“As much as I appreciate the sight, we have work to do.” Harold griped.

“Are you saying you can’t handle the distraction?” John flirted lazily.

“I don’t believe in needlessly increasing one’s troubles.”

“You calling me trouble Finch?” He said in mock offense.

“Indeed.” Finch smirked, and turned back towards the computer. John accepted defeat and finished his coffee. Then he went and freshened up, taking a quick shower, brushing his teeth and came out wearing a fluffy white bathrobe.

“So what do we have?” He asked, shaking water out of his hair.

“I think I found something. Dr. Wesley had a son. He was in the same platoon as Mr. Whitlow, under his command. He died.” Finch stopped there, and John could put the pieces together.

“Dr. Wesley’s wife, Tara Smith- she never took his husbands name- was very vocal on multiple forums for years about carelessness and negligence of army command in general and gave examples of her son often… she rarely mentioned the name except once or twice. I had not been able to find any connection because I was not looking in the right place.”

“You had gotten the number just last evening Harold, and it’s been an eventful time. Don’t beat yourself up.” John soothed, because he could see Harold was troubled.

“Yeah. Right. So, after his discharge, when Mr. Whitlow was looking for a psychiatrist, someone recommended him to Dr. Neeman Wesley over the email I retrieved from his computer, saying he took veterans on discount prices- he does not. I can only assume it was deliberate.”

“So… you think the good doctor has been messing up his medicines?”

“It’s possible. Muddling with his head and his medicine would be sufficient to make him paranoid enough to fire a gun in panic, it was only a matter of time until he killed someone. It would’ve been humiliating for Mr. Whitlow, possibly getting him lifetime in jail, if Mr. Wesley changed statements about the nature of his mental illness. It sounds like a planned and adequate revenge over an assumed offense.” Finch decided. It was more than plausible.

“Does that make Whitlow the victim or perpetrator?”

“There is no reason he can’t be both. But there is only one person at fault here.”

“I don’t know Finch. It’s hard to forget the fact that Whitlow shot you.”

“Mr. Reese…”

“I know, I know.” John placated. He could understand there were extenuating circumstances, but it didn’t mean he had to like the guy. “Alright. I am going to call Lionel with the information. I don’t want you going anywhere near him or contacting him.” John warned.

“I am not an imbecile and I would rather you stop treating me like one.” His hackles rose as he turned, ready to argue.

“I know Finch. I am not asking for yourself, I am asking for me.” He apologized, and Harold’s frown softened.

“Alright. I would let Detective Fusco handle it. And you should go check on Ms. Graham.”

“You’re right.” John agreed, and took off the robe to wear his rumpled suit from yesterday. He would drop by his apartment to wear proper clothes. Right now he was enjoying the smug pride that came with the fact that Harold’s eyes lingered at the curve of his ass even though he was valiantly trying to resist.

After he was clothed, he retrieved a clean bandage and ointment from the first aid kit, and against all protests started changing Harold’s dressing. Now, in the light of the day after the haze of anger and adrenaline had faded, and the bleeding had stopped, the wound looked a lot less awful than it did last night. It was still there, but it would heal, leaving behind a thin scar. He ghosted his fingers over the stitches, not touching for the fear of infection. After sticking the dressing securely, he left a kiss on top of it, and then pecked Harold on his lips, tearing himself away before it escalated into a repeat of last night.

When he was at the door, Harold called out, “Do take care Mr. Reese.”

John paused. Harold said something like this every time he left for a mission and he had never paid attention. He thought back to what it felt like hearing Harold be in danger, his harsh breaths and his scream of pain while being too far away to help. Harold took the ‘ _Always Mr. Reese_ ,’ quite literally, and was listening in almost all the time when John was out on a mission. Reese could not count the number of times he had been injured on the job, been shot at and stabbed, had lost the connection at the wrong time. All of a sudden he recalled how Harold’s breath hitched and sped up every time he groaned or a shot rang out.

“Harold?”

“Yes?” Harold was typing away at the computer, distracted.

“Do you feel like this every time?” Finch’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. That was how John knew he didn’t have to elaborate the question. Finch understood what he was asking.

He did not reply in words, instead, he turned around and gazed at John, and then his face contorted into a grimace and he shrugged his shoulders. It was answer enough.

John had always had a lot of respect for what Finch did. And it increased a hundred fold in this moment. After last night, he did not want to let Harold out of his sight even for a second, and Harold allowed him to go into firefight, terrified and anxious, but believing in him; believing he could handle it. How did he _bear it_?

_‘I expect you to extend me the same courtesy as I do you… the faith that I can take care of myself.’_

The statement made so much more sense now. He had to admit, Harold was a hell of a lot braver than him, a lot stronger. Reese did not know if he could ever stop worrying, but maybe he didn’t have to. It didn’t have to be all or none. He just needed to trust Harold with Harold’s own safety as much as he trusted him with John’s.

Nodding in understanding, he smiled, a little rueful and a lot in love.

“I’ll be careful.” Reese promised. It was the least he could do.

Harold grinned, wide and beautiful and said, “Thank you. Now, you should probably be on your way.” Before turning back around and getting back to his work of saving lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaahhh. I struggled, but I also had so much fun writing this. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please let me know?


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